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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26572315">No Good Deed</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sayyikes/pseuds/sayyikes'>sayyikes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Boruto: Naruto Next Generations, Naruto</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Disillusionment, F/M, Family, Kankuro Cold Open, M/M, The Crack That Smiles Back, sand siblings - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:07:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,137</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26572315</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sayyikes/pseuds/sayyikes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Kankuro blusters his way through airport security, Sasori has acquired tastes, and the family motto is unofficially: "that sounds like a you problem?"</p><p>_____</p><p>Neji kneeled to be level with what he assumed was the boy’s ear. “Shikadai, if you can hear me, goalie is the *least involved* position. Just take up as much space as you can, and if someone approaches, get in their way.”</p><p>(“Did you hear that?” Ino asked Deidara as he and Shinki neared her sideline setup. “You could have been a professional athlete.”)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Haruno Sakura &amp; Sasori, Haruno Sakura/Sasori, Inuzuka Kiba/Kankurou, Nara Shikamaru &amp; Temari, Nara Shikamaru/Temari, Sai/Yamanaka Ino</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p> </p><p>“<em>So, </em><em>I</em> <em> got through TSA fine</em><em>. Didn’t even have to take my off shoes ‘cuz they have the drug dog circulating—gorgeous Border Collie-Aussie mix, beautiful coat, healthy teeth— </em>”</p><p>“Apparently not very good at its job.”</p><p>“<em>—such a great dog. They said I couldn’t pet him because he was on-duty, but whatever. Never let a thing like employment get in the way of petting an dog. Yours or the dog's. Jobs? Effin' dime a dozen. Pups? Once in a lifetime</em>.”</p><p>“<strong>Kiba.</strong>” They prompted.</p><p>“<em>Yeah, yeah. So I’m past security, and I tried to find Kank. But it looks like he got flagged going through the body scanner.</em>”</p><p>Deidara smirked. “That was my nickname in high-school, yeah.”</p><p>“Actually," Sai fact-checked. "People called you <em>Class Pet</em>, on account of you went home with someone different every night.” He had read as much in his wife’s senior yearbook—teenage Ino provided the most comprehensive footnotes.</p><p>“<em>Thought you guys might like to see it in real time. I’ll have a good view once that pissed-looking lady moves</em>.”</p><p>“Yaaasss!” Present-day Ino cried. “Flip the camera Kiba! Show us the beast!”</p><p>They crowded around Shikamaru’s tablet (“Horizontal or vertical, doesn’t matter, just quit rotating.”) and the brown-haired man live-commentated:</p><p>“<em>Right. So they’ve got him off to the side there. Looks like they called a man agent to pat him down—I’d have done that myself if they’d just asked. Okay, metal detector wand. Legs are clean. Arms are clean. Oh, his chest is lighting up! </em>”</p><p>A familiar, black-clad figure appeared onscreen. Kankuro’s legs were spread and his arms were lifted. Casually, though, like he was at the beach waiting to be sprayed down with sunscreen. Beside him, a uniformed security officer stood unhappily. The sort of harrowed individual tasked with telling tourists that unfortunately, the beach was closed today due to higher than normal levels of flesh-eating bacteria.</p><p><b> <em>(“Do you have a pacemaker, sir?”  </em></b> <b>“We have a Vitamix...?”</b>)</p><p>“It’s a NinjaChop,” Sakura shook her head.</p><p><b> <em>(“I’m going to have to ask you to remove your sweatshirt sir.”  </em></b><b>“...I don’t think I should do that…” </b> <b> <em>“Are you resisting, sir?”  </em></b><b>“Just shopping around for other options. Show me the CarFax, haha.”</b><strong>)</strong></p><p>“I’m going to die,” His sister crouched to the floor in embarrassment. “Turnitoff. Turnitoff. Turnitoff.”</p><p>
  <em> “Holdup—the drug dog is coming over. It must be going on break. I can—” </em>
</p><p>“Eyes on the prize, Kiba!”</p><p><b> <em>(“Sir, I need you to remove your hoodie or this is going to escalate.”  </em></b><b>“I just don’t think that’s a good idea.”</b> <b> <em> “Disobeying an agent is a federal offense.”  </em></b><b>“Trust me, bro, I’m not carrying or whatever. You already got the scissors from my backpack.”</b><b><em>)</em> </b></p><p>Temari felt the secondhand cringe in her bones. Chouji saw the direction things were headed and smartly removed the knife block from her reach.</p><p><b><em>(“This is Officer Tadashi, I have a noncompliant gentleman on B Side</em></b><b>—”</b> <b>“Okayokayokay! I’ll take it off! But don’t say I didn’t warn you!”</b><b><em> “Gentleman is now leveling threats against an agent—”</em></b><b>)</b></p><p>Fuck this torture. The blonde woman resisted all of Sakura’s attempts to keep her upright. If she felt the need to assume the fetal position, she’d damn well assume the fetal position. “Oh my god,” Temari wished she didn’t know her brother half so well as she did. It would have spared her the horrifying realization that: “He’s probably not wearing a shirt underneath.”</p><p>
  <b> <em>(“Gentleman is now half-nude, but I recognize why there was a misunderstanding with the metal detector—”)</em> </b>
</p><p><em> “Hahaha, let me censor this!” </em> Kiba threw some gray alien filters over the video.</p><p>(“With any luck, they’ll detain him a few hours.” Sasori started a timer on his watch. He’d see how long it took for the pair to resolve a gaffe of this magnitude without competent assistance. Then he looked down at his female cousin, pill-bugging on the floor. “<em>Phylum: arthropoda</em>.” He catalogued.)</p><p>Sakura was more compassionate. She cradled her cousin-in-law in her arms. The setting sun silhouetted them in a warm, otherworldly glow, while the bag of mixed vegetables steaming in the microwave gave off a cadence akin to some Gregorian chant. (“....was I supposed to puncture the bag?” Gaara had a small panic attack of his own, eyes glued to the revolving glass plate.) The mood was very Dollar-Tree-votive-candle <em> Pietà</em>.</p><p>“Hey, hey. Deep breaths.” The pink-haired woman said, stroking Temari’s hair. “For the next 72 hours, you’re off the hook. You’re free as a bird. He’s Kiba’s responsibility now. Nothing to worry over.”</p><p><em> Dogspeed, Inuzuka. </em>She hoped against hope. “Okay?” “Oka—”</p><p>PWANG.</p><p>All eyes turned to the microwave. The mixed vegetables had exploded.</p><p><em> “The hell was that?” </em> Kiba asked.</p><p>“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.” Shikamaru provided. He was an atheist for the simplicity, but conceded that non-religion was lacking in good one-liners. (“Don’t even need a NinjaChop in this house.”)</p><p>“We have another bag in the freezer. I’ll try again.” Gaara said, failing to read the room. From the floor, his sister grabbed his pant leg. The kitchen’s other blonde female occupant blockaded the refrigerator.</p><p>“No.” They said.</p><p>Shinki unplugged the microwave, just in case his father tried anyways. The airport live feed continued:</p><p>
  <b> <em>(“Sir, for the last time, you need to put down Officer Barkley.”)</em> </b>
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</p><p>“What language is that?”</p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>“Did you put it through Google Translate?”</p><p>“<em>Did yOu PuT It ThrOuGh GooGLe TraNSLate? </em>” Chocho flipped her hair dismissively. <em>This guy...</em> “I can’t copy and paste the words off of a Pringles can, Inojin!”</p><p>“But what about the listing, though?” Shikadai asked. She frowned at him. Turned around and pounded furiously on the keyboard.</p><p>Clicked.</p><p>“...Malay.”</p><p>“Okay, now find a conversion calculator for whatever they use in Malaysia.”</p><p>The girl hesitated.</p><p>“Chocho, you gotsta,” Inojin insisted. “If not for you, then for me. I’m invested now. I need to know how much you paid for those chips.”</p><p>The Akimichi hemmed and hawed, but started a new search. Once she’d pulled up a site that looked promising (“only two dead Flash links”), she inputted the numbers into the text fields and hovered the cursor over the <em> Calculate </em> button. She bit her lip, confident veneer gone. “...I’m real scared, guys.”</p><p>Shikadai sighed.</p><p>“Look, lots of countries have insanely high bank notes. In Venezuela, it’s like 300 thousand bolivar to a dollar. This could be regular, Malaysian supermarket pricing. But we won’t know until you press enter.”</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>“So you’ll press it?”</p><p>“Uh-huh.”</p><p>“Soon?” She didn’t respond.</p><p>Inojin wasn’t the patient sort. “Clllliiiick.” He said, reaching over and doing what his hazel-eyed friend could not. (Said hazel-eyes almost burst from their sockets.) All of the children in the room held their breaths as the numbers tabulated. A lifetime and a half later, the page loaded.</p><p>Mitsuki was the first to speak.</p><p>“That’s a lot of significant digits.” He noted.</p><p>Chocho only screamed.<br/><br/></p><p> </p><hr/><p>
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  <em> “That dog better get treats all day-fucking-long.” </em>
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  <b> <em>(“He has a pension plan, sir, he’s doing just fine. Please, raise your tray to the upright position.”)</em> </b>
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</p><p>“Sasori,” His wife began. “I love you.”</p><p>“Your first mistake.” He acknowledged.</p><p>“—but if you think I’m going to see <em> War Horse </em> a fifth time, you’ve lost your damn mind.”</p><p>Sasori took in her vehemence. Then looked down at the table, where a nine-ticket grid was spread out Tarot card-style. (“Nine? Are we all going?”) No. Nine because it ensured a one-chair buffer between himself and the rest of the theatre-goers in every cardinal and ordinal direction.</p><p>The red-haired man put his palms down on either side of the grid and looked back up.</p><p>“You can pick any seat you want.” He propitiated.</p><p><em> I know they have posterboard around here somewhere</em>, Sakura thought. <em> The sign will read, 'If found, please return: Akasuna Sasori’s Sanity. $20 reward upon safe retrieval. *Use of judicious force permissible, and perhaps even preferred.’ </em></p><p>Her husband measured her nonverbal response. Equal parts distaste and exasperation. He’d need to acclimatize her to the idea.</p><p>“Fine. How about a compromise?” He said. “You go see <em> War Horse </em> with me.”</p><p>Sakura waited.</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“That’s it.”</p><p>“That’s not a compromise!” She sputtered. Where was a dictionary for her to throw? “That’s just you getting what you want!”</p><p>“The opportunity to spend time with you?”</p><p><em> ...Damn it... </em> Inner Sakura recoiled. <em> He’s appealing to my vanity and misguided affection. Must resist...tricky desert boy… </em> (The production trailer played on his phone…(“<em>Joey’s not a plough horse </em>!” “He’s not a plough horse, Sakura.”).</p><p>(“Is this about how the Greeks infiltrated Troy?” Shinki asked. “You’re thinking <em>High School Musical</em>, yeah.”)</p><p><em> Danny Boy </em> sounded through the phone. Her Pavlovian response was <em> immediate revulsion</em>.</p><p>“Look.” <em> Line in the sand, line in the sand. If he pushes anymore, gonna throw these hands. </em> “You can Eadweard Muybridge those puppets to your little heart’s content, literally <em> whenever</em>. But the sanctity of date night must be preserved for something we <b> both </b>want to do.”</p><p>She then exited the room before he could pursue the argument with her any further. Sasori muted his phone and turned to his tickets, displeased. “Why must they be mutually exclusive?” The empty space where she had stood gave no response.</p><p>“I ask that same question all the time.” Deidara said, flicking through Tinder on the loveseat.</p><p>
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</p><p>There was something about Kankuro’s absence that made everything feel <em> Twilight Zone-y</em>.</p><p>Temari was so used to being suspicious of unexpounded thoughts and abrupt silences, that the lack of them set her off-kilter. She’d overcompensated so much to ensure that the older of her brothers did not fall prey to his own screw-ups, that the effort’s resultant paranoia had become the premiere weapon in her arsenal. <em> If you can anticipate the stupid, you can prevent the stupid. </em> A badge-worthy mantra. (And also theoretical. Oftentimes stupidity is an unstoppable force and you are a very moveable object. The hotdog cart trauma proved as much.)</p><p>So this week, with no idiot brother to hyperfocus her paranoia on—not that Gaara didn’t still exhibit awkward moments, moments where people might <em> assume </em> he was an animal magicked into a human body, but at least raccoon-boy knew how to clean the lint trap on the dryer. (<em>That had been a gold-star-on-the-chart-day, </em> Temari reminisced)—she had an abundance of thwarting-energy just coursing unchecked through her system.</p><p>It meant that the blonde woman was aware of individuals previously out of blast radius. That she was honed to catch someone new in her crosshairs.</p><p>“Shikamaru!” She called, opening the front door and tossing her keys into a bowl not meant for keys. The man hastily clicked out of his minesweeper game. Busy. Busy. Hard at work. Look, a terminal window open. Lots of code. (He’d automated all these tasks years ago.) “Shikamaru,” Temari said again, entering her husband’s office. She needed to share her misgivings face-to-face.</p><p>“This morning our son asked me for ten dollars.” She said.</p><p><em> Nevermind, cut for time, </em> Shikamaru directed his brain. <em> HTTP 204. </em> His brain fed back. <em> Resource deleted successfully. </em></p><p>Temari continued: “He wouldn’t say what he needs the money for.”</p><p>Her husband shrugged. “Maybe emancipation forms have a filing fee now.”</p><p>The waste basket ended up on Shikamaru’s head.</p><p>“I told him—that is, I told <em> your </em> son— that if he took care of the yardwork, I would front him two weeks' allowance.” She clenched her fists. Her husband was suddenly grateful to be sporting an aluminum helm. “We shook on it.”</p><p>From the kitchen, Gaara checked the expiration date on a tub of parmesan cheese.<em> If this is in the European date format, it’s still okay to eat. If it’s in imperial, we might all get food poisoning... </em></p><p>“I’ve never known Shikadai to want anything badly enough to work for it.” The redhead said, deciding 50/50 was pretty good odds. And if they did get nauseous, maybe it would smother this gross guilt he felt for missing Kankuro. The two sensations were similar enough.</p><p>“That’s the thing,” Temari’s tone was simultaneously glacial, volcanic, Alanis Morissette ironic. “I just got home, and what do I see in front of my house? <b><em>Deidara</em></b><b>.</b> <em>Raking up </em><b><em>leaves</em></b><em>.</em>”</p><p>(“If he stays close enough to the curb, the sanitation workers might take him away, too.” Sasori contemplated. “This could end up being one of the least detestable months of my life.”)</p><p>“Apparently,” the blonde woman elaborated. “—<em>and Deidara was very enthused by this </em> —YEAH—Shikadai offered him <em> five dollars </em> to do some <em> ‘light landscaping’</em>. The same chore for which, you may recall, I offered our son <em> a tenner</em>.”</p><p>Chiyo cackled. Pantomimed picking up a rotary phone.</p><p>“Hello, Harvard Business School?” The old woman said. “I would like to request the exceptionally early admittance of my great-grandson, Shika-something.”</p><p>In his ergonomic chair, Shika-other exhaled long and deep. The plastic bin liner on his headpiece rippled. Temari pulled it up so she could meet his gaze.</p><p>“I don’t expect you to do anything discipline-wise. Heaven forbid. I’m just telling you this so that later in life, when the therapist asks if we presented a united front, I can lie and not feel bad about it.” She sniffed. “Okay, you can go back to your hidden minesweeper tab—And you!” Gaara froze. “Leave some pepperoni for the rest of us. This is the first night in years we don’t have to add cut up Vienna sausages to the pizza, and I’m not going to let anyone ruin it!”</p><p>
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</p><p>“...do you smell smoke?” Sakura's voice came from wherever it was she was waiting out the theatre season.</p><p>Gaara knew he’d forgotten something.</p><p>
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</p><p>Temari grew up without a mom.</p><p>Yes, yes, very sad.</p><p>Temari also grew up without a dad. However, unlike her mother, her father <em> had been alive </em> for most of her childhood. She knew he existed, but only in that same passing way she knew blobfish existed. Photos of him had occasionally surfaced, and they would behold his likeness with bilious fascination. (“He looks like you, Kankuro.” “Oh no.” “I’m sorry bud.”)</p><p>Now that she was a parent herself, Temari wished more than ever that she had something—anything—to use as reference. Parenting was tricky. She second-guessed herself all the time. Maybe if she’d had a mom, or her blobfish had been more attentive, this would come easier.</p><p>Fortunately, what the Sabaku family lacked in matriarchs and pressurized fishes, it made up for in <em> The Godfather </em> DVDs.</p><p>Outwardly, Temari didn’t like having mobster/informant-type talks with her kid. Sitting at the kitchen table, stoic and Marlon Brando-esque while her son sat opposite. Staring him down like he’d broken some Sicilian code and was about to be mailed piecemeal back to his family. Cannoli cannoli. Menacing cannoli.</p><p>But, well... This shit was effective.</p><p>At least, usually.</p><p><em> Even Copolla had a dud the third go-around, </em> she reminded herself.</p><p>“...and do you regret what you did?” Temari tapped the table with a many-ringed finger.</p><p>An exasperated sigh.</p><p>
  <em> Oh, he thinks he’s the victim here? </em>
</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, I regret what I did…”</p><p>She narrowed her eyes. Her son bit his tongue, held it as long as he could. But ultimately couldn’t help himself:</p><p>“...I regret that I didn’t offer him <em> four dollars </em>instead of five.”</p><p>“...”</p><p>Temari nodded. She nodded left. She nodded right. Then she stood, unclipped the red carnation from her breast pocket, and—with one hand gripping Shikadai’s face like a bowling ball—clipped it to his lapel.</p><p>Her son didn’t blink. He knew there was more to his mother than stinted forgiveness. And he was right.</p><p>“You made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.” Temari said, reaching below the table and resurfacing with a bundle. “Open it.” She told him.</p><p>“Don’t wanna.”</p><p>His mother glowered. Satan would have done a double-take. (Shikadai thought he was also atheist, but again, such vivid imagery to be plundered.)</p><p>He unfolded the bundle corner by corner. It opened to reveal a pair of shin guards wrapped in a jersey. Wrinkled his nose, then widened his eyes.</p><p>“It means Nara Shikadai plays soccer with the Hidden Leaves.” His mother decoded in a roughened timbre.</p><p>This time it was Shikadai who screamed.</p><p>
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</p><p><em> “ </em> <em> —and </em> <em> there’s a zip line, and oh, today one of the guys from </em> Avenue Q <em> presented</em><em>!” </em></p><p>“Sounds like a lot of fun. How’s Kiba enjoying it?”</p><p>
  <em> “He’s having a good time, but the Akamaru separation anxiety hit him hard this afternoon. He’s actually finishing a video call with Hana before we go for the evening sessions.” </em>
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  <b> <em>(“Bye, bitch.”)</em> </b>
</p><p>“Oh, I think I just heard her over the phone.”</p><p>
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</p><p>“You ever try to do something <em> helpful </em> for someone, and other people just,” Shikadai dug for the right word. “... <em> just </em> <b> <em>ruin it</em> </b>?”</p><p>The silence spoke for itself.</p><p><em> I make a concerted effort not to be helpful. </em> It said. <em> But, agreed: overarchingly, people are a scourge. I’ve actually been developing a sort of reverse-Avenger’s Initiative, let me know if you want in on this. </em></p><p>(“I mean, I’ll have to sleep on it,” Shikadai responded to the aether. “Unless—<em>magic 8-ball roll </em>—ah, signs point to ‘yes.’”)</p><p>The youngest Nara hefted a sigh. Usually (<em>not today, though, because today was a cosmic joke </em>), sighing helped alleviate the crushing weight of his eight year-old existence. A placating exhale to express his distaste, sans the need to affix words. Words were messy, but sighs? Sighs were blank Scrabble tiles. He could ascribe whatever sentiment he wanted to them and folks literally always understood. It’s what they should have taught those gorillas instead of ASL.</p><p>(“One of the first words Koko learned to sign was ‘Bad.’ Presumably to describe this nightmare reality.”)</p><p>Some of Shikadai’s greatest hits included: “Sigh” (<em>Fine, but I’m gonna do the bare minimum.</em>), “Sigh, featuring Eye Squint” (<em>You’re lucky I have no other way of getting home.</em>) and “Sigh, featuring Eye Squint *Limited Edition Breathalyzer-Duration” (<em>Why the hell would you sign me up for rec soccer? I suffer. Day in and day out, and now especially on Tuesdays and Thursdays. If you want me to pack a bindle bag hobo stick, we’re well on our way </em>). This variation he had just executed a few minutes earlier, for the first time, and to much acclaim.</p><p>But again, today was a wicked mistress. Today, his trusty, inherited, hindbrain-regulating, probably-a-stim-but-that-would-require-intervention-so-we’ll-just deal-with-it-on-a-case-by-case-basis sigh did <em> the opposite </em> of unburden him.</p><p>Today it sent an uprush of couch crumbs into his open mouth. (Grumbling into the sofa was dangerous business.)</p><p>Shikadai aspirated. God, it had reached his uvula. The additional sputtering jostled free a tortilla chip from some crusty abyss, and that then scratched his eyelid.</p><p><em> Thanks, Hashirama. </em> Shikadai swore.</p><p>He looked at the offending chip. A wave of something that wasn’t colic or tedium—and was therefore immediately attacked as a foreign pathogen by his system—washed over him.</p><p>This ailment was independent of his recreational soccer distress. Instead, it had something to do with this nasty chip; why it was still wedged in the couch cushions. Didn’t they have like, a couch-Roomba that took care of these things? What was it called? Oh, a Kankuro.</p><p>Ugh. This <em> stale chip </em> made him miss Uncle Kankuro. (“No one can ever know.” he told the aether. <em> I take cash and credit. </em> The aether non-replied. <em> But I’ll use this as blackmail whether you sell your soul or not</em>.) At least it was honest.</p><p>Ah, Shikadai realized. Kankuro’s absence rather explained the wretched state of current events...</p><p>Without his fumbling uncle in the house, there was a tectonic shift in family dynamic. It wasn’t like everyone could just stopper their daily outflow of ridicule until he got back from whatever children’s show puppeteer retreat he was on. That would be unhealthy. So, it was imperative that <em> someone </em> step in to fill the whipping boy post that his dunderhead uncle had left behind. And unfortunately for Shikadai, seniority dictated that someone be him.</p><p>“Shinki’s my cousin and my friend,” couch boy said. “But I’d like to resign and appoint him as my replacement.”</p><p>The aether (AKA his redheaded uncle—the more vicious and deceptively anemic of the two) made no reply.</p><p>
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</p><p>Sasori looked over. Shikadai was lying prone on the sectional. The kid might have been talking to him; Sasori didn’t know. He had his noise-canceling headphones on.</p><p><em> These were a good investment. </em> The red haired man thought, and closed his eyes again.</p><p>
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</p><p>“My name’s Neji—”</p><p>(“Oh my god, I already hate this guy.”)</p><p>The Hyuuga stopped short. He didn’t know it was possible to detest someone so minuscule. Or to want to be here even less than he already had five minutes ago.</p><p>“—I’m filling in as coach for today’s practice.” He assessed the group, scowling especially hard at the boy in yellow shorts who apparently wanted to put a hit out on him. That one was first on his list to accidentally brain with a corner-kick.</p><p>“Where’s Coach Lee?” The kids demanded. “He had an emergency.” “What about Tenten?” “Nonrefundable session at the gun range.” “Is the old man groundskeeper busy, too? Rather have him as stand-in than some Björk imitation with pipe-cleaner ankles.”</p><p>Yellow shorts's body would be fertilizing this field for decades to come, Neji decided.</p><p>“I’m here because literally no one else wanted you single-celled monsters.” He declared bluntly. “<em>Your parents most of all</em>.”</p><p>“I have a guardian.” Mitsuki shared, his soccer shorts pulled up unfashionably high.</p><p>The pale man ignored him, and instead set about assigning the most agonizing burpee drills the youth league had ever witnessed. <em> Alright. </em> He thought, and surveyed the struggling children. <em> I have this under control. It’s not half bad once you get to retaliate with corporal punishment. </em>So long as he didn’t get thrown any real or metaphorical curveballs, this hour should pass no pro—</p><p>“NEJI!”</p><p>A familiar pink-haired blur approached him from the adjacent grass lot. The blur was carrying a smaller—possibly dead—person bridal-style.</p><p>Neji looked closer. The corpse appeared to be wearing a green uniform.</p><p>
  <em> Christ, no. </em>
</p><p>“I have another one for you!” Sakura beamed, scoping the perimeter. Her blonde tag-along veered off to the sidelines, while a smaller shadow awaited instructions. (“You can go set up our chairs next to Ino.” She told Shinki. The boy set to it obediently.) Then she hefted Shikadai in her arms. “Where da ya want him?”</p><p>Neji considered finding a branch and turning his own jersey into a white flag of surrender.</p><p>“Is he unconscious?”</p><p>“Not for lack of trying.” A weary voice sounded. Sighed.</p><p>His pink-tressed friend re-adjusted the boy’s weight. “He’s like a space bag, I swear.”</p><p>“Just drop him in front of the net, I guess.” (“Ooh, you’re gonna be goalkeeper, pal.”) Neji kneeled to be level with what he assumed was the boy’s ear. “Shikadai, if you can hear me, goalie is the <em> least involved </em> position. Just take up as much space as you can, and if someone approaches, get in their way.”</p><p>(“Did you hear that?” Ino asked Deidara as he and Shinki neared her sideline setup. “You could have been a professional athlete.”)</p><p>Back on the field, a red-faced boy keeled over. “Mr. Cher-look-alike?” He asked. “When can we stop drilling?”</p><p>Neji made the boy’s teammates pelt him with water cups for the next twenty minutes. It was a "defensive play exercise."</p><p>
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</p><p>“The first time he wanted to see it again, I was like, ‘cool, it <em> was </em> pretty neat.’ The second time, I didn’t super feel like going, but he’d found something he really seemed to care about, so for sure, let’s do it. Like, ‘<em>I’m glad this gloomy World War II play rings your bell</em>.’”</p><p>(“I’m surprised. He doesn’t strike me as the type to go for stories with a happy ending.” “Oh, we always leave early so he can ignore the reunion bit.”)</p><p>“The <em> third time </em> he asked to see it again, I had a hard go of keeping it together. Because, you know what? That story is really contrived, and half those actors were faking British accents. I swore that third time I’d never let it happen again. So I’m past appeasements now. I hate that horse. And it’ll be a cold day in Hell the next time I allow myself to be dragged to that miserable show.”</p><p>“Preach, sister. He owes you a French dinner and a hot-air balloon ride. Maybe at the same time. Might be cramped, but French portions are generally smaller.”</p><p>Ino’s motorized mister fan <em> vvvrrrrrr </em>’d, breezing her hair back. Sakura leaned over to get a better estimation of the blonde’s vinyl canopy-setup.</p><p>“You really went over the top with this soccer mom thing.” The pink-haired woman moved, trying to get downwind of the mister fan.</p><p>“This girl’s so extra,” Deidara chimed from his place on the grass. It was an unfortunate position to be in, because it gave Ino a clear shot at his ribs. Which she took.</p><p>“Oh, pleeease,” The blonde sassed. “<em>This is nothing</em>. Orochimaru has a whole-ass tailgating tent over there. Look at him! There’s a frickin’ barbecue. And a generator.” She tsked. “So pretentious.”</p><p>Then—</p><p>(“Inojin, come get some water!” He approached his mother, panting. “Gotta stay hydrated, kiddo.” She handed him an uncapped San Pellegrino.)</p><p>Deidara twisted to look up at Sakura. This time, he protected his fleshy underbelly.</p><p>“Did you bring snacks, yeah?”</p><p>“I promised you takeout after this.” She reminded.</p><p>“Sure, but I’m hungry now.”</p><p>“Hmm, well, I brought some Turkish Delight.”</p><p>Deidara scoffed. “Yeah, no thanks, I know how that worked out for the last guy.” He muttered something that sounded like a bastardized version of ‘Mr. Tumnus.”</p><p>“Shinki?” She offered. The boy looked up from his Sudoku to select a flavor from the tupperware.</p><p>“Thank you.” he said.</p><p><em> So polite, </em> Neji thought, grimacing as the kids actually on his field collided like billiard balls. The lump in the goal had moved a bit, but only because there was an untreated ant pile. <em> Why can’t <strong>he</strong> be on the team? </em></p><p>
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</p><p>“Bite that child, Mitsuki darling!”</p><p>
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</p><p>“I’m <em> never </em> going back there again.” Shikadai announced in the car. (Neji was currently on the phone in his own vehicle, telling Tenten something similar.) One side of his face was covered in dirt. The other, humiliation.</p><p>“You could always run away.” His cousin suggested from the passenger side, drinking a lemonade.</p><p>“I’ve contemplated the logistics of that extensively.” Shikadai melted into the backseat. Next to him, Deidara plucked a dry blade of grass from his blond hair and went to throw it out the window. He depressed the control a few times, but the window didn’t budge. (“I child-locked them the moment you got in the car.” Sakura said.) Hm. He deposited the grass onto the boneless boy beside him instead.</p><p>Shikadai didn’t seem to notice. He was preoccupied with all of his dead-end escape plans. “Unfortunately, the most viable scenarios necessitate I get a driver’s license. Ergo, I’m in a jam.”</p><p>(“Jelly don’t shake.” The blond man ruffled his mane again. The car became a snow globe.)</p><p>Yes. The lethal prospect of visiting the DMV, was, in point of fact, what had led to this car ride in the first place. See, Shikamaru had never gotten any form of ID beyond the ones administered at his birth. (Even those were at the behest of the midwife, and not Shukaku or Yoshino. You have a kid, and that’s a lot of work, and then they want you decide what noises to make at the kid for the rest of your life? Mygod. Give them a breather, at least.)</p><p>If Shikamaru went to the DMV, he would probably die. This was both an accepted truth, and the man’s cleverest machination to date.</p><p>It meant that the oldest Nara always had an excuse to not go places, or visit people, or otherwise be in charge of conveying individuals medium to long distances. And Temari worked (“Engineering wind turbines? Maybe? It’s so boring I couldn’t bring myself to commit it to memory”) until 6 in the evening. Thus, it fell on Sakura to Charon-ferry her nephew-in-law to his “soccer gallows” (“Practice. Soccer practice”).</p><p>“Maybe you’ll change your mind about that one day.” She told him, turning down the road to the cul-de-sac. “Anything worth having is worth fighting for.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Deidara leaned into the front part of the cabin. “But where was this attitude when I asked for extra fried rice?”</p><p>
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  <em> “He really misses Akamaru. Like really misses him.” </em>
</p><p><b> <em>“His heart is probably breaking every morning he wakes up and I’m not there.” </em> </b>A sob.</p><p>“But Akamaru’s doing fine—Hana posted photos. Today they went for puppy pedicures.”</p><p><em> “That’s the problem. That’s </em> Kiba’s <em> thing.” </em></p><p>
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</p><p>“Chiyo-baa, you were a pharmacist.” Shikadai inventoried the medicine cabinet. “Is there enough of anything in here to incapacitate me?”</p><p>The old woman chuckled.</p><p>“Sasori asked silly questions when he was your age, too.” She waxed. “<em> ‘Chiyo’, </em>he’d say —this was back when we were still on a first name basis—”</p><p>(“You’re his grandmother, but okay.”)</p><p>“‘<em>Chiyo, how did Hannibal cross the Alps if elephants are bred for tropical climates? Chiyo, why didn’t the Byzantine Empire invest more aggressively in their naval fleet? Chiyo, are you up-to-date on your life insurance premium? What’s the policy number?’ </em>”</p><p>She laughed again. “Ah, those were the days.”</p><p>Followed by a more serious: “Are you asking about long-term or just for the afternoon?”</p><p>“Surprise me.”</p><p>She wouldn’t get the chance, though. A heartbeat later, the air fizzled, a car door slammed, and Temari burst through the front door. Sai followed behind her, as passive as she was aggressive. ("Did you two carpool?” “No. I’ve just been waiting outside.” “Oh, sweetheart.”)</p><p>The blonde woman made a beeline for her son. He was easy to spot, still in his little leprechaun outfit. (Expect for the cleats. She had to pat herself on the back for the very memorable way she’d left them at the foot of his bed, so when he’d woken up that morning, it was a scene what might make Francis Ford proud.)</p><p>“How was the first day of the rest of your life?” She wanted to know.</p><p>Shikadai popped the lid off of his orange chicken. Gestured flatly. “As you see.”</p><p>“Hm,” His mother’s gaze lingered. He looked scuffed up around the edges. But honestly, so did Deidara. She kept looking and looking and looking until a box of spring rolls were passed at eye-level, and the sight of them broke her concentration.<em> Alright then. Dinner first. Interrogation later. </em> She piled spring rolls on her plate. Kept piling. It was a Jenga tower of spring rolls.</p><p>Gaara recognized that he would only be getting wontons tonight.</p><p>Meanwhile, Ino asked the redhead: “Do you know why Lee wasn’t at practice? Neji said it was an emergency, but he didn’t know any specifics. And I can’t imagine anything constituting enough of an emergency for Lee to miss indoctrinating youth.”</p><p>“Ah,” Gaara pocketed a fortune cookie before his sister could get to those as well. “His cosmetic dentist might be going to prison. He was squeezing in as many patients as he could before the trial. I think Lee just went to get his teeth whitened.”</p><p>Somewhere on the other side of town, it was Neji’s turn to scream.</p><p>
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</p><p>“Why are you so happy?” Sasori asked his wife from over a container of plain white rice.</p><p>“The cashier at Panda Express told her she was beautiful.” Shinki supplied.</p><p>(“Damn it, Sakura, you’re too attractive. He forgot to give us the plum sauce!”)</p><p>“Which Panda Express?” Sasori asked his nephews with feigned indifference. Shikadai sensed a glorious opportunity—the first in days. He silenced his cousin before the boy could answer.</p><p>“Perhaps a trade is in order,” The green-clad Nara held a chopstick in either hand.</p><p>“No,” Temari shut down, her Jenga tower tipping precariously. “I’m imposing trade sanctions on this table.”</p><p>Shikadai’s sigh could have powered a blacksmith’s bellows. He grabbed his orange chicken and slumphed to the office, where his father was playing online Mahjong. Shikamaru eyed his son knowingly. The boy descended to lay face up on the floor, and perched his bowl on his chest. The shortest distance between any two points is a straight line. This was eating dinner at peak efficiency.</p><p>“On a scale of one to ten?” His father matched tiles.</p><p>“One.” Shikadai stared up at the popcorn ceiling. “Ino was in charge of bringing team snacks today.” He said.</p><p>“I forgot her mentioning that.”</p><p>“So did she. We ended up with warm <em> La Croixs </em> from the back of her car.”</p><p><em> Yeesh. </em> Shikamaru was all for teaching lessons (when he didn’t have to be, well, in the thick of it, teaching the lesson), but this was too much.</p><p>“I’ll talk to your mom.” The man sighed.</p><p>“Prays for you,” Shikadai sighed back.</p><p>He extended his neck to bite some chicken, but wobbled. Sticky rice fell onto the floor. And they still had another day before Kankuro got back from his trip... He shook his head. How troublesome.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
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</p><p>“They keep it frigid to offset the stage lights. You should know this by now.”</p><p>“Just shut up and give me your jacket.” He didn’t move. “Sasori…” He moved (begrudgingly). “Hold on, there’s something falling out of your pocket...wait....what’s...<em> are these for </em> <b> <em>the matinee?</em> </b>”</p><p>“The curtain’s rising, you have to be quiet now.”</p><p>“<em>I’m going to kill you, </em> ” Sakura whispered. In her vice grip, his hand turned the nice bleached white color of resume paper. “<em>I’m going to take you to a community theatre production of </em> Spamlot.” She swore. “<em>We’ll sit in the worst mezzanine seats I can find, and you’ll watch the entire show, start to finish</em><em>.” </em></p><p>A trumpet bleated from the orchestra pit. (“Devon, England, 1912”).<em> “At the end, you’ll clap with the rest of the audience. You’ll clap extra hard for the tone-deaf guy playing Galahad so he feels better about himself. </em></p><p>“<em>And then, when it’s over," </em>Two actors led the title automaton in from stage-left. “<em>We’re going to exit out a back door even the ushers don’t know about. I’m going to lead you into the alley behind the theatre,” </em> Her voice was breathy. <em> “...and dispose of you like Bruce Wayne’s parents.” </em></p><p>Sasori loved it.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Find me on tumblr @sayyikes. Lots of unnaturally hair-colored drawings.</p>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Night Circus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Karui’s on the line with her credit card company right now. It turns out there were actually <em> two </em> purchases from that seller on their last statement.”</p><p><em> Oh, Chouji. </em> Shikamaru sighed.</p><p>“She said she’d never have thought to investigate at all. But someone left a “Working Hard to Reach Our Goals” fundraising thermometer in the printer tray by accident.”</p><p><em> Oh, Chocho. </em> Shikadai sighed.</p><p>Temari turned to the boy. Her small, prickly child was being swallowed up by throw pillows on the sofa. “I don’t think ten dollars would have moved that mercury line even half a degree.”</p><p>He shrugged in his pillow cocoon.</p><p>“It takes a village.”</p><p><em>Hmm... </em>His mother glanced at the display clock on the oven. 8:44 pm.<em> Yup, time to parent.</em></p><p>“Shikadai, we never want you to feel too uncomfortable to share things with us. Especially when they involve sketchy, non-olive oil-related imports. We love you.” The blonde woman looked expectantly at her husband. Raised her eyebrows. “And.” She pressed.</p><p>“...and we’re...here for you?” Shikamaru guessed. The eyebrows remained raised. “...no matter... what?”</p><p>(At ease, eyebrows, at ease.)</p><p>Shikadai looked queasy. The older man’s face pinched in discomfort as well.</p><p>“That felt weird.” He admitted.</p><p>“Yeah, never do that again.” His son requested. </p><p>
  <em> “I will not.” </em>
</p><p>In the living room, Sasori had commandeered the coffee table. He was at the 2-axis gimbal-stage of his automaton recreation, and procedural sketches were scattered around him. His main drafting paper he weighed down with some of Gaara’s smaller cacti to keep from curling at the corners.</p><p>Meanwhile, the red-haired cactus-cultivator himself was watching TV.</p><p><b><em>“—</em></b><b><em>no one suspected calm and collected Dr. Kaguya</em></b><b><em>—</em></b><b><em>now better known as </em> </b> <b>The Tooth Fairy<em>—to be the perpetrator</em></b><b><em>. Our team of detectives conducted interviews with many of his former patients, in an effort to better understand the intricate web he wove and the many masks he wore</em></b><b><em>—”</em> </b></p><p>A black silhouette appeared on the screen, identity hidden <em> contre-jour </em> style.</p><p><b><em>“My guardian and I have had Dr. Kaguya as our dentist for as long as I can remember. He is quite the jokester. Perhaps it is just individuals who do not floss regularly whom he dislikes.”</em> </b> </p><p>Shinki watched alongside his father, and with increasing concern.</p><p>“It’s alright,” Gaara said. “This will be finished before <em> Antiques Roadshow </em> starts.”</p><p>The boy’s whole demeanor lightened considerably. </p><p><b>“</b><b><em>Konoha Crimestoppers</em> </b> <b> will return after these messages.</b></p><p>
  <b>KBC7 News, Tonight at 11: </b>
</p><p>
  <b>It’s a huge trash vortex, and it’s on the move! Get a closer look at the <em>Great Pacific Garbage Patch!</em>”</b>
</p><p>Sasori stilled. His attention was momentarily diverted from equine wire-framing to the trending story on TV. </p><p>“Ah.” Sakura said from the recliner. She was hard at work deleting the Ticketmaster app from his phone. </p><p>“You miss Kankuro too, huh?”</p><p> </p>
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